by Leo Hunt
“I don’t think so,” I say. “The only place most of them seemed to want to take me was into a grave. The Vassal was the only one who tried to help me, and your demon ate him. How long did you have the Host for? Why did you summon it?”
“A shame,” Dad says. “I was always fond of the Vassal. Would that you had . . . No matter. I began binding the Manchett Host nine years before your birth. You must understand I did not summon a full eight spirits all in one go. Finding the correct fit for each role takes time. As for why I started . . . do we have time for this?”
Dad looks over to the Devil, who is staring into the mist.
“Time enough,” the Devil replies.
Dad breathes out heavily. He runs his thumb over the largest, blackest ring on his fingers, which I recognize as the sigil, the ring I’m also wearing. I presume it’s just the spirit image of the ring, part of his ghost in the way his suit and shoes are.
“It begins with the discovery of a tomb, fittingly enough,” Dad says. “I was a few years older than you are now, working one summer on a building site. We were digging out the foundation for a new shopping center, and I had the . . . misfortune to drill into something that should have been left alone. A tomb, a strange chamber that contained a single skeleton wearing a black suit. Clasped in its hands were a green book fastened with silver clasps, and a black-stoned ring. You are familiar with these objects. There was something about them. . . . I took them. I still do not know why. I hid them, and then I called the foreman over, and after that, they brought in archaeologists. It was a curious tomb; every wall was covered in writing, strange symbols, a language nobody from the museum understood.
“From this point, my life took something of an unexpected turn. I had no luck opening the strange green book, and the antique-books dealer I contacted refused to even look at it. When he saw the star engraved on the cover, he left the meeting without another word. After that strange occurrence, I began to feel that a terrible shroud had fallen over me. I felt cold all the time. I could not get warm. I half glimpsed a face in dark windowpanes, a dead face in crowds, a shadow cast not by light but by some greater darkness. I would awake to frost on my windows, to strange marks drawn by invisible hands upon my walls . . . terror such as I have never known. I sought rescue in a professional spiritualist, but when he perceived the entity that haunted me, he refused payment and refused to help any further. In this desperate state, I received a visitor.
“He presented himself as a solicitor, a Mr. Berkley. He claimed he was also an expert on the supernatural and had been alerted to my case by the antique-books dealer I had approached. He took me to dinner, and we talked.”
“Deeply mediocre wine, as I recall,” the Devil remarks.
“He convinced me that the spirit world existed, that I had disturbed something terrible within it. The tomb was broken irreversibly, and I had no hope of placating the spirit by laying its body back to rest. My only hope was to bind it to my will. He explained the use of the book I had found, and the black ring, my sigil. With Berkley’s aid I captured the spirit, powerful though it was, and felt its power become my own.” Dad’s eyes look alive for the first time, almost wistful. “The spirit was revealed fully to me, a withered old man with eyes as black as oil pits. Berkley told me the spirit was the remains of a powerful necromancer who styled himself Octavius. I believe you have met.”
“Yes,” I say with a shudder.
“Octavius became my Shepherd, the first among my Host. It was a terrible insult to him, and there was no trust or love between us. At first I kept him tightly bound away. I could not free him for fear of my own life; the ghost had, I suppose, a hold upon me as well.”
“You could have banished him into true death,” the Devil remarks. “You had the means within the Book of Eight, if you had looked.”
“I know,” Dad says. “I desired . . . I felt his power. I was no longer an ordinary man. I wanted more. The idea of becoming just a builder once more, lugging bricks for a living . . . I knew I was meant for something greater.”
“And that is why I chose you,” the Devil says quietly. “That is why you entertained me so.”
I sit down on the gray sand. I don’t know what to make of Dad’s story. I pick up a handful of sand: cold and somehow lightless, the color of a winter twilight. Dad stumbled onto something he didn’t understand the danger of and resorted to desperate measures to get himself out of it. I can sympathize so far. I never thought I’d be buying a gerbil in order to sacrifice it to Satan. What I still don’t understand is how he ended up as a TV star with a broken marriage.
“What about me and Mum? Where do we fit in?” I ask.
“A year passed. I began to speak with the Shepherd, and I grew to know and master him. We began to travel the country together. At first I was working as an exorcist. The Shepherd . . . had a way with hauntings. Often he could persuade spirits to cross over. I began to become known. Your mother . . . Persephone was always very spiritual. More interested in what she couldn’t see than in what she could, perhaps. We met at a psychic fair. It was real love, a real marriage. I’m sure she’s told you that part herself.”
“Yes,” I say. Mum’s never spoken much about him, but I know their eyes met while he was reading her aura. I think of her rising up out of the earth at the Devil’s Footsteps, the knife sliding into my stomach.
“She knew nothing of the true nature of the dead, of course. She has no second sight. I described the Shepherd as a benevolent spirit guide, which infuriated him to no end. Meanwhile, my reputation grew, as did my Host. I had begun to correspond with a Scandinavian necromancer, Magnus Ahlgren, who had been recommended to me by Mr. Berkley. Under Ahlgren’s guidance I scoured the graveyards of Europe, binding saints and murderers to my own soul. At the same time, I monetized my exploits, signing the contract for my first TV series a year before you were born. It was an innovation I was particularly proud of. I began to draw a good income, although by this point money was not my greatest desire. The Shepherd had told me that he had lived a thousand years, and a man who bound a full Host of eight spirits could expect a life far beyond his natural span. I was obsessed. Your grandmother died of cancer when I was young . . . my father died with her in a way. I was determined to move beyond this, move beyond death. To live forever . . . your mother knew nothing of this, of course.
“I welcomed your birth, Luke, but there was fear as well. I had enemies. Necromancy is an old art with a small pool of practitioners, and many of them were not happy that a newcomer was performing exorcisms for the camera. They saw it as undignified, unworthy. Magical war broke out a few years after your birth. Ahlgren, my only ally, was overcome. The old bloodlines of Russia, Rasputin’s children . . . I had to leave you. I could not risk staying under the same roof as my wife and only child. When the war was over, I meant to return. I swear.”
“And you didn’t provoke them?” I ask. “You swear it wasn’t your fault? You really only left to protect us? How did you die? Did another necromancer get to you?”
“I wanted to return, but I never had the chance. As I said, you must live the life you have.”
“But . . . didn’t you know that if you died, I’d inherit the Host? When did you think would be a good time to tell me about that?”
“I fully expected to live longer than you. I believed I would bury my great-grandchildren. The Shepherd swore he had seen Rome itself rise and fall. I believed myself immortal, drafted a will only as a formality. My death . . . came not at the hands of an enemy. I did not foresee it. Eating alone, I choked on a forkful of steak. The Host did not aid me. My Oracle had not warned me. I could not use my voice, could not command them at all. The Shepherd watched me die and promised his vengeance would be enacted on my son, and then . . . Berkley and his aides were upon me.”
“A miserable death,” the Devil remarks. The hidden sea sighs. I don’t like looking into the Devil’s eyes: They’re brighter than before, lit by something more than joy or sunlight.
The Devil is cleaning his pocket watch with a small cloth. It looks bright and flawless to me, but he polishes the crystal face of the watch with even, circular movements.
“I have a question,” the Devil says without looking up from his task.
Dad swallows.
“Your account is accurate, Horatio, except for some details. You exaggerate the duration of the war between yourself and the eastern necromancers. I can forgive you for glossing over the fact that your good friend Magnus Ahlgren died at your own command. You feared his treachery, and rightly so; some foes come armed not with daggers but with smiles. However, there are some important details being omitted. We met on two occasions, you and I, and the second meeting took place in Luke’s very home, while he slept. I believe the boy deserves to know what passed between us, and why the necromancer’s war ended that very night. Tell us this: Why did the war end? By what means did you overcome the eastern bloodlines? And why, soon afterward, did you leave your wife and young child?”
Dad is ashen, cheeks bleached as the sand.
“No,” he says.
“Horatio.”
“I will not, you cannot —”
“Remember to whom you speak, Horatio. Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do. It would be deeply unwise.”
“Please,” Dad says.
“Horatio. Horatio, will you stop? There is no need to kneel. Remember that I own you. What you desire does not matter. My mind is made up. I believe your boy deserves to know the truth.”
“I’d really just like to go home,” I say. Dad is pressing his forehead to the gray sand. “I’ve had enough of this now. I want to go home and be with Elza and Mum again.”
“Patience, Luke. The sorcerer has one more tale. Tell him the truth, Horatio. Or I shall.”
“Please . . . please . . .”
“Tell your fine first son the truth.”
“Luke . . . I am so sorry.”
“Please just tell me what’s going on. I’m sick of not knowing what you’re both talking about,” I say. “Tell me the true story or just let me go.”
Dad kneels in the sand, shaking. The Devil raises one white eyebrow, and Dad clears his throat to speak.
I’m four years old. We’re in the Mediterranean, on a boat, and he’s holding me out over the side so I can look down into the water. Mum is scuba diving, and he’s telling me that the dazzling purple blur I can see down below the water is Mummy. I don’t think I quite believe him. Mum is being swarmed by fish that want to bite her hair, and the blinding ocean below me is a kaleidoscope of red and green and orange and yellow shapes, whirling like leaves caught in a gale.
If you stare into the mist of this border place, you can pretend you’re floating. You can pretend you’re anywhere except here. Dad is sitting now, with his feet pointed toward the clouded ocean. The Devil watches us intently.
“Ahlgren was skilled and cunning,” Dad begins. “Strong as our enemies. He had a full Host of eight, while my Host at that time numbered six: Shepherd, Vassal, Heretic, Judge, Oracle, Prisoner. Our war dragged on; neither side could gain the upper hand. A necromancer’s war is slow and bitter, without mercy. We were like pythons, crushing one another in the blackest depths of the sea. Each move could take years, and a single blunder could mean my end, your end, your mother’s end. . . . I began to fear that Ahlgren would betray me. I had taken his advice in my studies of the Book of Eight and its secrets, and Ahlgren knew the construction of my spells of defense, the rituals by which I had bound my Host. He could betray me and end the war, regaining the favor of the eastern families. I became consumed by this fear. The Shepherd and the Judge counseled decisive action.
“By this time, I had discerned ‘Mr. Berkley’s’ true nature, and I summoned him during the Halloween of your fifth year, Luke. In full knowledge of my actions, in desperation, I struck a bargain with him, and he revealed secrets that lay deep within the Book of Eight, beyond reach of my studies. I was able to bind a demon into my service —”
“The Fury,” I say.
“Yes, a shade with the aspect of a wrathful beast. Such power had not been held by a necromancer for centuries. With the demon’s binding complete, I set it against Magnus Ahlgren, my old ally. He died that same night. The rest of my enemies fell within days. I was the new power among those who bound the dead. None would dare defy me.”
“I thought you said you left us because it wasn’t safe for us. But you won the war before you left me and Mum?”
“Your mother and I already had our differences. . . . I wanted to conquer death itself, live forever. Persephone wanted to open a crystal-healing center in the Midlands. We were coming at life from rather different perspectives, and —”
“No,” the Devil says. “Tell him everything.”
Dad leaps to his feet. He’s right up against my face, we’re inches apart. I could draw a map of the blood vessels in his eyes.
“It had to be done!” he shouts. “There was no choice! I had to do it! Ahlgren could have betrayed me! We’d all have died!” he says, stepping towards me.
“I said, I’m not touching you!” I yell.
“Luke . . . there was a price. Berkley told me the price, and I paid it, and I have paid it ever since. I’ve paid for binding the Fury for a decade now, and you have paid the price as well.”
“What price?”
“In order to bind one of my children,” the Devil says, “a balance must be achieved. Life may be paid in exchange for those who are dead, but my children were never alive and so are not dead either. An exchange must be made of raw, potential spirit. A sacrifice of utmost purity is required.”
“I don’t understand,” I tell him.
“You . . .” Dad begins. “You were to have a brother. I had a second son. Nobody knew, not even your mother. Berkley, the Devil, told me of the child’s very existence, and told me, too, how the unborn spirit might be bound, used as counterweight in the exchange. And I knew then why the binding of demons was so rare. How high the price. But it was not murder. I merely drew out the fresh kindled spirit. Your unborn brother remained unborn — became the Innocent. And you lived your life in safety. There was no other way.”
I look away from him, into the mist.
“It is not our sins,” the Devil says quietly, almost to himself, “but our guilt that allows us to be bound.”
“I’ve paid the price,” Dad says. “What I did was wrong, but it had to be done. Or so I told myself. I found myself alone in my own family, more at home with the dead than with the living. Every time I saw your face, Luke, I was reminded of what I had done. Persephone . . . your mother suffered ill effects, effects I had not anticipated. Melancholy, headaches, persistent listlessness. Drawing the child’s spirit from her had permanently damaged her. I felt claustrophobia, black guilt. . . . I had won the war, but it seemed I myself was lost. There was no place for me with you or your mother anymore. I had to leave. I did not deserve you —”
Dad’s voice suddenly cuts out, like a muted radio. He’s still standing with us on the beach, but now it looks like he’s miming a conversation. His gestures become wilder as he realizes we can’t hear him. His eyes are bugging out, and he beats against some sort of invisible barrier. I step back. The Devil grins at me, unruffled, his wolf-gray suit so crisp he could’ve stepped from a magazine. He looks at his gold watch.
“He does talk a lot, your father,” the Devil remarks. “As my time here is not endless, I have quieted him so we may talk. Anyway, the truth has been outed. Wicked father uses unborn son in dark pact to protect his living family. Eventually his guilt consumes him; he loses his living family in the bargain. All very entertaining. And I can’t lie: I’ve had a great deal of entertainment from you these past weeks, Luke. Doggedly struggling toward this meeting with me
. Your father’s Host was no match for you.”
“You wanted this to happen,” I say, “didn’t you?”
“Of course. Your inheritance was all of my doing. I wanted to see how you’d cope. Whether you’d come to grips with the sequence, discover the depths the Book of Eight held, which you did, with some help from Horatio when my back was turned. I wanted to know whether you’d come calling for me, wanted to know what you’d resort to with your back against the wall. The Shepherd nearly had you, but you made it here in the end. I had to bend the rules only a little in order to appear to you.”
“You did all of this so Dad would have to tell me the truth?”
“Amusing, isn’t it? They call me the Father of Lies. But the truth can be so much more painful.”
“I want to go back,” I tell him. “Send me back. I want to see Elza and Mum and Ham. I spoke to Dad. I did what you wanted. Send me back.”
“Of course.” The Devil grins. “But first you need to make a choice. I have a proposition for you, my boy. Hear me out.”
I look into his luminous blue eyes. There’s nothing human in them anymore. I don’t know how I ever mistook this creature for a man.
“Your father, Horatio, belongs to me, as per long-standing arrangements between us. I believe he imagined he’d have a few more centuries before I collected my debt, but things don’t always work out the way we plan them, as he’s so fond of telling us both. He’s a sinner, and I’ve every right to take him with me into the darkness. The coldest depths of death.”
Dad is beating a fist against the invisible wall, screaming something to me. I look away.
“You —” I begin.
“I leave this entirely up to you. You’re his son, his heir, the one he sinned for, or so he claims. It seems only fair that you decide his punishment. I can take him to the dark place with me, and ensure he gets exactly what he deserves. It would entertain me greatly to know he’d been consigned there by his own blood. Do this for me, and there is no limit to what I can give you. Your father’s fortune will be yours. I can make you rich, powerful, I can make you the greatest magician in the world. Horatio’s estates, his cars, these will be but the beginning. Any girl you desire — they are yours if you send your father into the darkness. I can make this so.”
